I have a pond of sad fish. They drink the wine brewed by the past, listen to the stories after the dust has settled, and look at the sad and happy A and B, talking about the insignificant ending, carrying countless expectations, but I have forgotten that their memory is only seven seconds. I think I need a dose of snowy medicine to treat my scars, so the heavy snow quietly said in my ear: Good night, we will see you in my dream.